


Bouquet of butternut

by captainofthegreenpeas



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, F/M, Fluff, Gifts, springtime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 17:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13839756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainofthegreenpeas/pseuds/captainofthegreenpeas
Summary: May Day traditions are very stupid.





	Bouquet of butternut

“I heard the other day,” Fulvia remarked, “that apparently "May Day” is what pilots say when they’re conveying distress and there’s an emergency. How fitting.“

  
It was a Capitol tradition that was the cause of her disdain. One of the most celebrated poems of the post-apocalyptic era spoke with hope of a divine maiden who danced across frozen winter meadows bringing the flowers back to life "for Spring was in her step”. 

  
So, all because of a lame pun resting on the meaning of the word “spring”, on the first day of May every year, May Day, every admirer was to pick the most beautiful flower they could find and give it to the most beautiful person they could find, who, tradition said, would give them Spring in return. 

  
“There is an emergency in public and private gardens both,” Plutarch admitted. “The groundskeepers are going quite mad trying to stop the flowerbeds being decimated in the public parks. Peacekeepers are patrolling the private gardens of the great and the good to deter lusty trespassers. And if anyone tries to steal one of Snow’s roses, they’ll soon find themselves pushing up the daisies.”

  
The mayhem was why, on this May Day, the two of them had chosen to stay well away from the popular greenery. Plutarch promised instead to show her the remains of the old city walls, which had lasted for generation after generation, slowly melting into the earth, that which had stood proud and old before Panem, marked by attack of army and weather, moulded by the years. He had pointed out to her the chips where names and initials had been carved and they had made their speculations on time and people and purpose. 

  
“I think it perfectly stupid, to give flowers,” Fulvia said flatly. “Honestly. They see something beautiful, so what do they do? They pull it out of its home for the point of a gesture and then it dies. Typical.” 

  
Plutarch could tell that her criticism was not just at the flower pickers, but he let his notice go unsaid. “Flowers would still die, though, even if you left them all. Besides, you kill vegetables and wheat when you pull them out of the ground, cook them into a dish; and make a gift of that.”

  
“But you don’t pull them out of the ground to show someone how beautiful vegetables are when they’re not wilting and withered.”

  
“Well, there goes my bouquet this year.” Plutarch retorted drily. “I was thinking of a watermelon, topped with a butternut squash and some sprinklings of pollen. The melon is symbolic of the green spring grass, the squash the warmth of the sun.”

  
“And the pollen?”

  
“How’re you supposed to know it’s spring without allergic reactions to tell you?”

  
“The birds won’t shut up. That’s how you tell.” But she was grinning. Fulvia turned to examine some strange-looking ivy on the ruins. She wondered how the ivy was able to drink water, where did the roots go? At least nobody was trying to pick that. If they did, the walls might crumble and crush them to death. 

  
They turned a corner while she eyed the ivy and as they did so Fulvia found herself turn back to face him. She jumped at the sight of a small silver flower in his hand. 

  
_Damn it_ , was her first thought. _Why didn’t you warn me that you were going to surprise me?_ Fulvia hardly wanted to refuse it, but she felt foolish for having just ranted about the impractical sentimentality of perishable flower-giving. 

  
However when she actually looked at the flower she recognised it. An enterprising old woman whose fingers were still deft scavenged scraps of silk and brocade from the fabric markets and made them into flowers, selling them at a cent each come May Day morning on Myrrh Street. They lasted for ages.

  
Blinking with surprise, she stood stunned. Plutarch tucked the stem of the flower into her hair. The silk was soft against her ear. 

“There,” he said.  “Spring is here.”

_Always one step ahead_ , she thought. They linked arms and walked on. If they were not mistaken, Fulvia’s feet were considerably lighter than before. 


End file.
